If At First
by Eternal Winters
Summary: BLU team can't seem to get out of their losing streak, so it's time for the Administrator to call in the seldom-used tenth class: The Express. The person they recruit has a bit more problems with assimilating than usual. Warnings: Female fan-class
1. Laughter

_Author's Note: Alright, here goes nothing. I am trying my best to keep everyone in-character and Express as un-Mary-Sue as possible. This is my attempt at integrating a tenth class into a mixture of my headcanon and a loose TF2 canon. Reviews and Comments are always welcome. Tell what you hate and what you like! I'll adapt accordingly._

_Be forewarned, though, this chapter is fairly lengthy, and this pattern may continue. Thanks, and hope you enjoy._

Chapter 1

Express slammed herself against the wooden wall, muttering a swear and sliding to her knees. Heavy boots, worn and dirty, clunked down the hallway toward her hiding spot. Express took a deep breath and held it as the footsteps turned the corner, earpiece crackling a bit. Her left hand shot to her ear and quickly shut it off; any sound would expose her position. A rather heavy-set man in a grey helmet that covered his eyes ambled past, sniffing in disgust and adjusting his rocket launcher on his shoulder. He disappeared through the doorway just down the hall at the end.

Deciding that he was long gone, Express exhaled sharply. She leaned on the wall for support as she stood, a few strands of hair loose in and breath ragged. There had never been a time when she needed to run so fast for so long, but she survived because of it. Express couldn't help but feel a little proud of her accomplishment. Bet the boys back home didn't have it in them to beat her. Her smile faded quickly when she remembered her headset, and she swore audibly.

Flicking it back on again, she wasn't surprised to hear a large commotion in the center of Badlands. The battlefront was framed by red sandstone formations, and smaller spires were scattered around the field, creating a maze-like feel. On the huge, raised platform in the middle of the map lay a control point. Her team had been fighting with the other for possession of that point for two hours.

Amongst the garbled and frenzied cries of, "Medic!" and, "Get on the point!", Express immediately picked out her title being yelled as well. Convincing herself that the small rest was enough, she charged further down the hall and onto the platform. The dark, wooden planks creaked angrily under her feet, and the supports groaned slightly from gaining even more weight. Around the point, locked in a deadly bullet-ridden tango, circled a pair of gigantic, burly, and bald men tailed by two smaller, dark-haired men. From the contraptions in their hands, a stream of red or blue light shot from them and continuously enveloped the other men.

Tick tick tick tick.

Express' ear twitched slightly. That was the sound of an empty chain gun. She hated the sound of empty guns. Approaching the large man in a blue shirt, Express whipped out a crate from her navy backpack and extracted a long chain of cartridges. Within seconds, she deftly fed the ammunition into the mammoth-sized gun and sped off down the opposite direction. The satisfying sound of bullets being shot sent a creeping smile onto her face, despite her better judgement. She was really smiling too much today.

Taking care on the steps so to avoid tripping, Express lobbed the now empty crate into an unused corner.

The corner grunted in pain.

Perplexed, Express dug into the grey bag at her hip and pulled out a small mesh bundle, waiting for any sign of movement. A flicker of red-colored light caught the corner of her eye and she whirled around and let the bundle of caltrops soar. It landed with a small clink of metal-on-dirt and exploded into a dozen metal spikes, littering the area. Not the result she was hoping for; she really wanted to find the source of the grunt. Suddenly, while walking towards the caltrops, Express stopped short. Someone else was coming around the corner.

The man in the helmet from earlier, clad in his bright red military jacket straight from the Great War, lumbered right onto the caltrops. A slick red already tinted his boots as he growled with the pain and instinctively launched a rocket toward Express' feet. Express barely had time to react, diving to her left and rolling into the chain link fence that bordered the whole battlefield. The pinprick stinging of shrapnel spread across her back but she ignored it, opting to scramble to her feet and run away from her assailant.

She heard him shout some more in his distinctive American martinet's voice, but the young woman could care less what he was saying. She grabbed her pistol from its concealed holster and put it up at the ready. Alarmingly, the shrapnel began to bleed more furiously and the pain doubled in unison. She needed to seek medical attention. Express ran past a garage door labeled "Resupply", but upon noticing that it was a red, not blue, sign, she continued on.

When she realized that she was supine on the floor and covered in dust, it was too late. The invisible man Express had tripped over had his sleek, black revolver to her head.

"I'll kill you quickly, which is more than a useless gopher like you deserves." His French accent was gravelly and cold, much like his blue eyes. Express couldn't believe it. Just like that, on her first day, she would end up being sent home in a matchbox. Her hefty backpack, chock-full of ammunition, held her back from retaliation. The hammer clicked, a bang rang out from the south end of the map, and Express was enveloped in black.

"A Spy, wasn't it, mate?"

Express blinked. The fluorescent bulbs in the ceiling shined a garish, hard light onto her bleary eyes. Immediately, her ears began to pound and she reached a trembling hand to cover her face. Running over the last minute of her waking life, Express sighed in confusion. She ran, she fell, she died.

She died.

Ugh. So "Respawn" had taken over. Express blinked from under her hand, letting the light gingerly filter through her fingers. At least that was getting better.

"It's all right, ya know. First time's always difficult."

Who was talking to her, so shamelessly aggravating her pounding head? Express let her hand fall back to her side. Her eyesight had fully recovered, leaving only the ache in her forehead. She recognized the white, glossy ceiling and the smell of bandages and antiseptic solution. This was the infirmary. What she guessed was the source of the deep, Australian-tinted voice began to shift around, and soft boots clunked nearer to the gurney. His long face and brown hat slowly came into focus as he cracked a smile.

"Go away," Express muttered. "I have no bloody patience right now." The man's expression grew affronted, but only for a moment, and the laid-back air returned.

"Was only trying to be civil, mate," he straightened up and gazed at the wall facing him. "The bloke got me the first day too." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, the grey stubble scratching sounds out. Express gave him an incredulous look. Really, now, small talk? Mumbling nonsensical words, she slowly sat up straight, supported by her arms. I guess I'll give him a bit more patience, Express thought, and winced as she leaned on a tender spot on her hand.

"Does Respawn take that long?" she said not to anyone in particular. The man gave her a quizzical look.

"I've been out for nearly four hours."

He was taken aback, expression forming into one of surprise. How was she able to calculate that, without clock or watch, and being unconscious the whole time? Express, used to the reaction, took notice immediately.

"You wanted to talk to me so now I'm asking you a question," she grumbled, sitting up straight. "Do I have to bloody repeat myself?" The man shook his head quickly, attempting to compose himself. Testy one, wasn't he?

"It usually takes around one minute or so. Sometimes a bit longer if we're losing." He shuffled his feet a little and added, "Heavy actually carried you here."

Heavy. The large, bullet-eating man from earlier on the capture point. Express stared blankly ahead, eyes boring into nothing. So not only had she died, she had passed out as well. Bloody brilliant. Express muttered a brief thank you to the man and hopped off the gurney, hood up and hands stuffed in her jacket's pockets. She had a lot to think about: dying, time, not to mention her possible discharge from the team. The man watched her leave through the infirmary's pale green doors and sighed.

"Poor bloke," he muttered to himself.

Express wasn't "pretty," but she wasn't repulsive either. Her face was androgynous at best, with green eyes and short brown hair, which she used to her advantage back home in London. She could get into trouble, like fights and races, and get out treated like an equal; it would be different if her competitors knew for certain that she was a girl. She could hit back with the same intensity, be hit with full, non-altered blows, and recover with the same injuries as the other boys. Her life was in the fight. No one treated anyone as if they were delicate or different. Express could belong simply by being there and going for it.

Of course, almost cliché, her mother wouldn't understand. She treated Express differently. Singled her out, the youngest of her three daughters: two of which had attended prestigious schools and were either doctors or professors with husbands. Express was eight years younger than the eldest, at 23, and her grades and attendance were poor. Her delinquency and scorn for proper education were constant subjects of argument.

"You can't hold a job as a bloody shop girl for more than a week! You don't have education to back up any jobs anywhere else!"

You, you, you. It was always Express and Express alone.

"Amanda. Who do you suppose will take care of me when I'm old? You're father's dead and one of your sisters is expecting. How long must I wait for you to grow up?"

Her mother would try using guilt, anger, and even bribery to sway her. Express couldn't stand it. Her mother still wouldn't see her as a daughter, a person that, despite her after-school activities, had feelings for her education and mother's wellbeing. She was compared to her sisters' bright, shining accomplishments, ever-drowning in the deep, murky "failures" that came from her "choices."

Express sent another gloved fist into the small, ragged punching bag that the Engineer had mounted on the rec room's ceiling. The Engineer was a stout, friendly Texan who was incredibly book-smart and knew how to apply his knowledge. He was the only one of the nine other mercenaries on the team that Express could admit to herself as respectable. Now she really was going on a tangent.

She punctuated her chain of thoughts with a flurry of blows to the bag. Left hook, straight right, uppercut, hook, hook, straight. The chains groaned in complaint and the bag swayed violently as Express stepped back, hands relaxed at her sides and a wayward lock of hair hanging in front of her eyes. She would probably be sent home tomorrow. Her performance today was subpar by her standards; who knows how high her employer's standards were. She would have failed to prove her worth to her mother, to show how her "useless roughhousing" after classes had paid off in cold, hard money.

"And did you see him? BAM! Just like that."

Express recognized that voice from down the hall easily. The arrogant tone and Bostonian accent was too simple to place. Judging by the volume, he was walking down the hall, conversing with someone. It was only a matter of seconds before he passed the room.

"It was such a hoot! Pummeled right into that damn spook! I...oh." The young man stopped his sentence and walking short. Express caught herself glaring at him venomously and turned back to the bag, creaking and groaning again, hitting it with a bit more fervor than before. She joined the team for the fight and for the money, yet her supposed teammates had either ignored her presence or determined her incompetent from the start.

"Whatever ya fancy amusing, lad," the taller man beside him remarked, too drunk to notice that the conversation had ended. He hiccuped, swished the bottle in his hand a few times, and continued on in a drunken stupor. He even managed to carry on the conversation with himself. The Scottish-born African man was always bizarre in behavior and temperamental in persona, but still their team's explosives expert: the Demoman. Express was almost tempted to hate him just because he was a Scottish drunk, but he pay no attention to her so in turn, she returned the favor.

Express continued to beat the poor burlap bag senseless; her knuckles cracked and she felt a sting in shoulder, but she kept going. The pain reminded her of her little fight club after school, and that always helped her angry mind. Her victories, her losses, but above all her friends flooded into her head, distracting it. The young man watched from the doorway silently, awestruck by the fierceness of her punches and occasional kicks.

"If you're just bloody standing there, move your blooming arse and shift." Express called behind her, not turning from the bag. Dents, forced and deep, started to form on its fraying brown surface. The young man set his jaw and stepped into the room defiantly. No way was a short guy going to boss him around. It didn't work that way; there was a natural order of bossiness. He learned that first-hand from being the youngest and smallest brother out of eight.

"You're hogging the rec room, dino-brain," he began, cracking his knuckles and neck. "And so you're the one that needs to go. Like, permanently." He spat out the last word with a grin, hoping to have prodded something tender with his words. Express stopped mid-punch. Oh how she wanted to turn and break his stupid nose! Her extended fist trembled, fighting against her rampant feelings and attempting to remain calm. Hurting him wouldn't bring about anything positive.

Suddenly, a woman's voice came onto the PA system. Cold and disinterested, she announced the arrival of the mail and rations train and then cut the feed. Express had taken this time to dart out of the room unnoticed, flexing her painful hands as she made her way down the hall. Her mood lifted almost instantly. Maxine always sent her one or two letters, and sometimes even a sweet or something nice. At least her first and last day fighting could end on a lighter note.

"Dear Amanda, It's great to hear from you, or at least read you, again! The last article you sent me was absolutely hilarious. Who knew a duck would make such an astounding fashion accessory? Yes, but in all fun I must also include a bit of seriousness.

"I found something to serve as a sort of update on Benjamin. He is no longer AWOL. He is dead. He is dead, Amanda. I still have trouble writing those words and actually consciously knowing what they mean. I regret to be the one to inform you of this, but his body was found on your doorstep in a large refrigerator box. Since your mother only sends letters to me, I knew of this last week. I've sadly had more time to cope than you, but time is of essence.

"What is astounding to me is that the refrigerator box was labeled as from 'Builders' League United.' Isn't that who you work for, currently? I'm not suggesting anything beyond being suspicious and keeping watch on your employer's decisions. I don't want you to be next! You're mother is recovering, but you might not want to attempt contact for another month after the dust has settled. She has been complaining to the neighbors and cursing you more vehemently than ever.

"I will have to continue my research as to why Benjamin was murdered, but you can help too. It's been a few days since you've arrived at the workplace in America, so have you made any connections? I know you're bad at making friends and it's a wonder how Benjamin and I became so close to you, but I hope you will try a little, mate. Who knows? Maybe one of those nine, meaty men might carry you off into the sunset, if you know what I mean.

"I'm sorry this letter has been absolutely wonky in regards to mood. I hope you'll understand like you always do. Lots of love (and sweets), Max.

"P.S. Thanks for the gloves! You know the winters in London can be absolutely dreary, so I'm absolutely delighted."

The last bit of a spherical peppermint candy melted away, and Express breathed a sad sigh, folding up the letter and reclining back onto the small bed. She let the paper sit on her stomach as she gazed at the ceiling, still flexing her hands occasionally to keep them from healing back stiff. She wasn't hysterical upon hearing of her best friend's death. It had already been an idea, tugging at the back of her mind. Still, it didn't feel right not to cry. Express resigned herself to blaming it on her all energy being spent that day. She would reply to Maxine's letter tomorrow, when she most likely would be going home.

"So have I made any connections?" Express muttered to herself, but immediately scoffed at the notion. She wasn't sociable, she didn't like to branch out, and she had made no attempt to be civil with anyone. In fact, she had used "bloody" in just about every sentence that day, a feat which horrified her to no end. Since when was her speech that uncouth? Thinking about it more, Express recalled an incident about two months ago where she had been disqualified from an underground parkour match for out-swearing the referee. Express shivered in disgust. She was much too moody, too angry since Benjamin disappeared. It showed how fragile, how short life could be, even for tough, street-smart people like the trio. Amanda, Maxine, and Benjamin.

Benjy and Max. The two people that saved her from going even deeper outside of the law. The two that pulled her back from murder. Now one of them was gone without a reason.

Still, Express groaned in annoyance, she didn't want to make friends with her team. She wasn't a very good team player, to say the least. Sure, she could do tag-battles and relay races, but that was different.

But was it different? Express sat up, head in hands. It was a form of teamwork; one competitor helped another in a group. Burying her face deeper into her raw palms, Express grumbled in frustration. She hated to second-guess the mentality she held for years. Work alone, and there is only one person to blame and care for. Work in a group, and there are more people to care about, more people to blame. And she might be dismissed tomorrow. It becomes too complicated.

"He is dead, Amanda." Express heard Maxine's voice whisper in her head. She looked up and flipped her hood off her head, adjusting her two stubby pigtails. She had to try. It might be worth the effort to at least go beyond acknowledging her team's existence. It was for Benjamin anyhow.

Express couldn't keep down her stomach's complaining, and needed a quick bite to substitute for a proper dinner. Making her way to the kitchen, she met no one in the halls. The emptiness was a relief for her, since she still was reluctant to try branching out.

It was the time of day when everyone was winding down and getting ready for bed, and when she did meet someone, he simply walked past her. Grimacing as Demoman ambled past, she decided the kitchen was a decent place to start her little social experiment. Two birds, one stone as the old adage went.

She stopped thirty seconds before the open doorway, waiting, deciding how to go in. Hood up or down? Happily or detached? Express grumbled slightly. It had been too long since she last forced herself through something like this. After a few minutes of contemplating, she started forward.

Footsteps and metal shuffled across the linoleum flooring and Express fought the quick, primal urge to turn heel and run away. Why the bloody Hell was she even trying so hard? Express caught herself muttering expletives and frowned at the wall. All for you, Benjy. Shoving her hands deep into the pockets of her hoodie, she set her jaw and finally walked into the light.

It was a rather dismal sight, the kitchen. A pale blue rectangular room with a corner-and-a-half of white counter space and a large off-white table in the center, it was more cramped than cozy. A mediocre little microwave stood next to a gas range set into the countertop at the left end of the corner, and cabinets and a double-sink were centered on the full leg of the counter, straight ahead from the door that Express entered. To her direct right stood a modest white refrigerator, humming along peacefully. One more doorway was to her left by the end of the counter; most of whoever was in the room had left through there.

The Australian man from the medical bay sat on a chair to the left side of the table, fresh decáf steaming from his signature "#1 Sniper" mug. This was the team member known as Sniper. He was reading some sort of yellowed newspaper and sat with his long legs fully outstretched under the plastic table, ankles crossed. Express hesitated, her hand shakily reaching up to the proper height to say hello. When it got there she stepped forward and attempted a timid "hello." The only problem was the first half was empty and the last half came out sounding like a squeak.

"Crikey!" Sniper nearly jumped out of his seat. Express recoiled slightly, hand dropping. Shaking his head to clear it, he realized who it was and relaxed his stance. "Um, hello." Eyeing the the slightly shocked expression plastered to the girl's face, he quickly added, "Sorry about the reaction, mate. A bloke gets a bit jumpy with all the spies, am I right?" Mercenary he might be, but politeness transcended any sort of title. Seeing no reaction, Sniper cleared his throat and nodded a few times, then went back to his paper.

It had been a couple hours since he last saw her, digging through the mail crate with extreme focus, and it was a little odd seeing her stand before him so disturbed. After a full three minutes she still hadn't moved. Looking up from his paper, he gave a sidelong glance to Express. She had a different expression now, glancing about the room with a look of hyperactive boredom. Like Scout sometimes. Warning lights went off in the man's head and he quickly answered them by killing the awkward silence.

"You hungry, mate? There's some leftover macaroni in the fridge." The man motioned toward said fridge with a nod. Express blinked a few times and a shuffled over to its door, mechanically opening it and grabbing a Tupperware bowl. The man eyed her movements curiously, a little disturbed at the forced quality of them. Being an observant man, the hidden feelings of her movements were glaringly obvious. He didn't want to start a conversation again, but the silence was nearly unbearable. He had read the same comic panel at least ten times over. Clearing his throat, he flipped a page in his newspaper and spoke.

"You shouldn't feel clucky about the mission today. First days are always bloody brutal." Express nodded as she wrenched the microwave open and stuffed the macaroni in. She attempted to reply with words, turning to face him, but only a small bit air came out. Damn, the conversation was not going well for either of them. "I think you've taken it better than any other bloke here."

His mouth shut abruptly, cutting of the back of the last word. Sniper regretted the statement the moment it registered in his mind. Soldier, Demoman, and even Scout had done better their first day. Everyone had, in fact. Being trained killers prepared them for anything. Scout was an exception, but he was an oppressed teenage boy from the bad area of town, which made up for it. Seeing as Express didn't notice his pause, he just sighed a little and just moved on.

"I dunno about you, but," the microwave beeped and Express repeated the jerky removal of the now hot macaroni, "I think you just need a few more days on the field."

A few more days. Express scoffed at the thought, grabbed a fork from the wire drainer next to the sink, and sat down across from the man with a thump. She stared at the milky white cap of the bowl and chuckled darkly.

"I wish. I wish I had that much time, mate." Express looked up at the man, who was now staring at her intently over the newspaper, blue eyes surprisingly clear behind his yellow aviators. She pried open the container and shoveled a forkful of the gooey, white-yellow noodles into her mouth. "Do you know what we Expresses are called in for?" He shook his head slightly and placed the newspaper onto the plastic table, intrigued. It was not often that anyone on the team got to hear information on their employer's decisions. After swallowing, Express continued.

"We're hired for a simple reason. Your team was a losing team, and we're supposed to change that. It's been done before, with other people. Just blokes so far." She paused to ingest another bite of the salty stuff and continued. "But what happens if we actually hinder the team? We get the boot!"

She set her fork down with a huff and slammed the table with her fist, causing both the bowl and the man to jump slightly. "With the way things are looking, I'll be back in ol' Blighty by the end of tomorrow!" She grabbed the fork and begin to shovel in the half-decent macaroni with vigor, as if drowning out further outbursts with the foodstuffs. Sniper stared back at her, awkwardly watching as Express wolfed down spoonful after spoonful of noodles.

"I don't think she'll send you back." He finally said after a minute of silence. "We haven't won yet, so there's time for you to improve." Fork halfway between her mouth and the bowl, Express stopped short. A smile tinged the corners of her mouth and she calmly finished the food on her fork. He wasn't such an unpleasant person, Express supposed, and finished off her macaroni. The thought put her into a much better mood.

Piss, Sniper thought, this is getting schizophrenic. Seeing that there was no effort to initiate more conversation, he went back to reading his paper.

A few more panels in, he noticed that Express was washing out the container, singing softly to herself. He glanced up at the sink and noticed all the dishes had been cleaned and stacked neatly in the wire rack, awaiting their return to their proper place. When she finished, she turned towards him with a small smile.

"I don't think I gave a proper introduction on Saturday, to any of you blokes." She shifted slightly to the other foot and raised her hand out to Sniper. "I'm Amanda Burns." The man recoiled slightly, realizing that she was female; it had been a question in the back of his mind for three days now, but the feeling quickly passed and he took the offered hand, giving it a firm shake. "The name's Mundy. Lawrence." Sniper returned the smile with a bit of uneasiness. It was only polite to answer her introduction with his, but the action still felt...off. He wasn't used to sharing any sort of personal information with anyone. Yet, Sniper thought as Express gave a small wave excusing herself from the kitchen, he could tell she wasn't either. Two socially dysfunctional people. Definitely good candidates for friends.


	2. Inception

_AN: Hello again, and I promise to have a very small author's note. I'll probably be slow in getting my next update up, as I've sort of hit a roadblock named Assassin's Creed: Revelations._

_Thanks, as always._

Chapter 2

Express woke at five AM with a start, muttering to herself incoherently and burying her face deeper into the desk. The crinkle of paper made her pause for a moment. Lifting her head, she nearly slammed it back down onto the desk in disgust. There lay a half-written reply to Maxine's letter, slightly wrinkled and definitely smudged. She glared at it for a moment. One sentence remained unfinished. The line was like a wall, blocking the rest of the letter from being written out.

"Work's been interesting, though I'm actually..."

She squinted at the black, spindly letters. Express didn't believe in it much, but she knew a thing or two about graphology, and each bit of her writing was screaming out, "incompetent, incoherent, and a mess." A mess. Sighing, she stood from her desk and groggily ambled over to her door, grabbing a bundle of fresh underclothes from the small dresser next to it. She'd find out her job status soon, and hopefully she could finish her letter.

Express stopped just before the door, hand already on the dented knob. Usually, during the evening, she waited until the last person, most likely the Pyro, to leave before showering herself. Though she didn't mind public showers, she did want to avoid any accidents involving a man catching her indecent. She still had personal dignity.

Since at that point in time, an empty locker room would be highly improbable, Express decided to just nix the shower until she got home. It was bound to happen, anyway. With that in mind she finished the letter in pen and sealed the envelope.

Scout jumped from foot to foot, eager to start that day's match. He'd replaced his normal bat with a large mackerel wrapped in newspaper and wanted to test it out on the enemy team. It had begun to reek, but all the better for those damn REDs, a'ight?

Express pulled on her backpack with shaky hands, both annoyed with the smell of old fish and unsure of whether or not she was still permitted to fight. No phone call, telegram, letter, or announcement had come from the Administrator about her job status. So far, the day felt like yesterday; the team got ready from behind a gate as the other company, Reliable Excavation and Demolition-or RED-did the same on the other side of the field. It was the same field, same point to capture. Nothing was too odd.

"Five."

Demoman gave a small belch and readied his grenade launcher. Soldier saluted to the gate, rocket launcher in hand.

"Four."

Spy flicked his cigarette stub to the ground and crushed it.

"Three."

Sniper gave his rifle a last wipe with a white cloth, chucking the rag onto a bench near him. Pyro mumbled happily to himself and adjusted his flamethrower.

"Two."

Engineer shouldered his massive toolbox, a sentry ready to deploy. Medic kept his Medigun trained on Heavy, who lifted his beloved minigun up for a quick kiss.

"One."

Scout whooped and and charged at the gate, fish flopping along with him. Express finished checking her shoelaces and took out her pistol from its holster. The gate slid open and everyone rushed out. Muscles tensed, Express trailed a few feet behind the Pyro, who jogged out at a decent pace, occasionally puffing the air with little fireballs.

"The point is ready for capture! Move!" The Administrator bellowed, annoyance tinging the corners of her voice. Express' earpiece crackled to life, and a tinny, robotic voice informed her that two people on BLU were standing on the point. It was most likely Scout, seeing as no one on the team was faster than him. Immediately the voice announced that the RED Sniper had killed Heavy. Express continued on the dusty field, intently listening in on more kills and assists. Eventually she branched to the left to get underneath the bridge, and Pyro continued on straight to the point.

Five minutes into the third skirmish of the day, the Administrator yelled across the battlefield, "Blue team has captured the point!"

It wasn't a bad start, Express noted, handing off a 25-pack of rifle bullets to Sniper, and the Administrator still hadn't called her out yet. Maybe she would stay after all. A little spark, a bit of happiness bubbled up into her stomach, causing her to drop the bullets before they reached the Australian.

"Oh bollocks let me get those," she swore and bent down to scoop some of the scattered bullets up. Sniper gave a small chuckle and continued staring through his scope, waiting for any movement. The enemy sniper was the only reason he needed more rifle ammunition; the bloody bugger was really good at dodging last-minute. Not that Express knew, but she was certainly grateful to be of use.

Shuff, shuff.

She froze on the spot, hand on the last bullet. Sniper hadn't heard it, but Express' stomach dropped sharply. She knew that sound. Attempting to nonchalantly straighten herself as quickly as she could, she managed to stuff the bullets into Sniper's bag . She kept her muscles tense, but her eyes out the small window, waiting for more shuffling. She drew a breath and listened.

There.

Lunging out, she deftly switched to her nail puller and swung it as she turned, hitting something and making it shimmer slightly red. Sniper jumped at the sound of metal hitting bone and did an about-face, brandishing his kukri that lay on the crate beside him. The enemy spy lay in the floor in a crumpled heap, blood streaming from the front of his chest. Express stood, gaping at the damage she had done. Sniper gave him a little kick and he grunted in pain. Bloke was still alive!

"That was not necessary, bushman," the RED Spy began through gritted teeth. "Hurry up and kill me!" Blood began to seep into the wooden floor, and Express shifted anxiously in the corner. Squatting beside the spy, Sniper flicked the blade of his kukri affectionately.

"Nah, mate. I'm not going to kill you."

"Oh please, even you aren't so cold—"

"_She's_ going to finish what she started," Express gave him a quizzical look. "Get the full point, eh?" Sniper gave a toothy grin and put his kukri away, returning to his post at the window with his rifle. Express stepped carefully towards the spy. She hadn't killed before. Maim, break, and injure, yes. But murder? She always had Max or Benjy hold her back. Some of that mercy, that kindness stuck in the back of her mind as she gazed at the crumpled mass of pinstriped suit.

"Well?" He demanded. "Are you going to just stand there?"

"Too much talk for a dead man." Her eyes suddenly hardened and she stared into his steely blue eyes with the same coldness. He was the reason she failed so miserably yesterday. This man had kept her from completing her job, made her go through the fear of losing the job. No code of honor would justify the kill, since the enemy was down and wounded, but at that point, rage took over adrenaline and she brought the sharp end of her weapon down into his skull.

Sniper heard the ensuing crunch and nodded slightly. She had to be initiated into the killing some way, if she ever hoped to improve her score. Medic of course could make his money by assists alone, being constantly behind the powerhouse members of the team, but everyone else had to kill to get their minimum score. In the two battles before this one, Express had shown that she could only reach half her required points on assisting alone.

A sudden, lurching feeling seized Express' stomach as she wrenched her weapon from the RED Spy's ruined skull. She instantly dropped the metal bar and stuck her head out the small window, retching. The utter carnage wasn't a problem. It was actively ending a life, snuffing it out that was simply impossible to fathom. Falling to her knees, she let her head rest on the wall with a small thud. She watched as the man's body had already begun to fade away, blood also pooling inward, towards the body. Her stomach did another flip, but this time she felt hollow, not sick, emptiness suddenly creeping from her core outward. Sniper diverted his attention from the window just in time to see Express dash outside and down the steps to his right, a small, soft sound that he couldn't quite place trailing behind her.

Aw piss.

Scout stopped suddenly, spoon interrupted on the way to his mouth. Their spy had walked in and basically plucked the new guy from his seat and shoved him out of the kitchen. He blinked emptily as he witnessed the scene, soup completely forgotten. In fact, everyone there seemed to notice something odd about Spy's sudden, rash actions. Engineer's brows were furrowed in thought at the table and Pyro had stopped flicking his lighter by the microwave, both staring out the doorway.

Down the hall, Express was being pushed and prodded by the suited man. The walk had gone in completely creative directions, twisting and turning into unfamiliar places around the base.

"Let go of me, you bloody-"

"Time is of essence, mon délinquant. Move like you mean it!" Spy hissed, shoving her into a dark room and closing the door behind him. Express pinwheeled forward as she stumbled from the force of the last push. Her hands made contact with a dull, metallic thud onto what seemed to be a table in the center of the room, steadying herself.

"Have a seat, girl, and listen closely." He motioned to the metal chair beside her hand, barely discernible in the dark light. "And let me get that light for you."

With a soft click, a light bulb, bare and lonely, flickered into life. It hung from a thin bundle of wires directly above the aluminum table. The room was painted a pale, grey-blue, and the floor was an aged white linoleum. Scuff marks scattered across the floor indicated that the furniture had been changed many times, and even a few fistfights had been held in the room. Express glared at her surroundings, oddly familiar, for a bit before taking a seat. After Spy cleared his throat, her heart sank.

This was about the battles today, wasn't it? She hadn't reached her point quota. But! Ah yes, but it had been closer than last time. Hopefully the Administrator understood that as improvement. The young woman tried to cling onto what little hope that thought gave her.

"So, I hope you can guess why we are here today." Spy snickered to himself, his French accent light, crisp, and sinister. "Because I will attempt brevity." Express tensed and kept her eyes on the table. "You see, I directly converse with the Administrator on a daily basis, and she has made a recurring remark about your performance on the battlefield. Would you like to know what it is?" She slowly nodded her head and stole a glance upward. The man was lightly pacing in front of the table, arms crossed gently.

"To put it simply, you suck."

Express winced. The flicker of hope she had was now stamped out like the Spy stamped out his dog-end: crushed, insignificant, and gone. This was it, wasn't it? Two days, six battles later and it was all over.

"Do you have anything to say about your behavior?"

Express kept her fingers clenched around the edge of the table. Her mouth felt dry and she couldn't feel much, as if someone had pulled a white sheet over her head. It was terrible, yes, when based on numbers alone. The rest of the team could proudly say that their score was at least double their daily quota. There _had_ to be something she could say for herself.

"I'm new to the…murdering part," she mumbled, not taking her eyes off the table. Immediately she regretted even thinking of responding. It was a mere excuse, one that couldn't excuse the quality of her performance. The sound of leather shoes stopped and Spy turned to face Express.

"The Administrator hired you for a reason, yes? I hope I don't to repeat anything…" Despite saying this, Spy continued to talk, elaborating about what her duty to the team was and adding various tangents about his own accomplishments. This was getting tedious, Express grumbled and reluctantly looked up at Spy's sharp face while he spoke. The skinny Frenchman always enjoyed dancing around the point, like an interrogator would employ torture. She noticed it on the first day, how he purposely picked the longest words he could fit logically into a sentence, spending exactly five minutes and two seconds just to explain how a normal battle schedule would go. Soldier, being the loud, practically mad American he was, managed to thunder out the same general message out within two minutes the day after. It was s if the spy needed a daily dosage of attention; the more Express thought about his mannerisms, the more she disliked the man they belonged to. Spy was snobby and dangerous, as far as she was concerned.

"I'll take your silence as a sign to actually state why ou are hnere, as you have failed to deduce for yourself." Express' eyes shot to the table again. "The Administrator has asked me to monitor your progress on an 'inside-level,' so to speak." Spy leaned forward, gazing intently at Express. "Your progress has to improve, mon délinquant. It has to improve exponentially. If we meet like this again, it will be our last. You may go."

He straightened himself up before the last sentence fully left his lips, pulling at the ends of his suit jacket to smooth out the wrinkles. Express; gaze never left the table, but her grip on its metal surface was completely gone. She was safe. Her job was safe. For now. Spy had pulled a fresh cigarette from the inside of his jacket and exited the room before she began to react, the click of the door finally bringing her to her senses. A smile tempted to pull at her mouth, but she thought better of it—it wasn't time to celebrate, not by a long-shot.


	3. Foreboding

_AN: So I've beat Assassin's Creed: Revelations, but I've hit a road block with this story. I have to find a way to maneuver it towards the ending that I want, which is posted on my profile as well. I don't want a super long fic, so it'd be great to get some feedback! Reviews are appreciated!_

_Thanks, as always. Hope you enjoy._

Chapter 3

Express slammed into the wall, cramming herself into the corner as quickly as she could manage. A horrible sensation of dejá vu crept into the pit of her stomach: the enemy Soldier was after her again.

"C'mere, ya scone-munching maggot!" He thundered, ambling down the same hallway as the first time they met. What a brilliant insult. Express always wondered why it seemed like the abrasive American was singling her out; the wrong place at the wrong time, Sniper would say, mere coincidence. The Brit muttered hopefully to herself as she flattened into the shadows as he passed, but to no avail. He caught sight of her from under that oversized helmet of his and reached for his shovel. Express drew in a sharp breath. Before either combatant could react, however, two blue, pill-shaped grenades rolled into the hallway. Express glanced up just in time to roll out of the way of a disembodied hand and various other American body parts. Each fell to the floor with a shower of sickening thuds, and she couldn't help but grimace. It was a wonder, how the blast didn't even scratch her, but the team usually shrugged it off and just thanked the company; the "friendly-damage suppression shield" was one less worry on a battlefield where death was a norm.

"That be a close one, lass." BLU team's Demoman stepped over into the hall, reloading his grenade launcher. "Watch your back...I won't be!"

Express nodded briskly, tossed a few grenades which Demoman caught, and dashed off into the middle platform to answer a call from the Heavy. She had to start earning points or else she'd be below quota.

The points system was a way for the team's employers to keep track of each person's performance on the field, rather than having constant surveillance when explosions and bombs would likely damage equipment. The way it worked was that each team member had something embedded into their outer clothes that kept track of their deaths, and something embedded into their weapons to track hits and usage. For each assist—a kill that can be contributed to two or more people—the killer and the one who shot before each gain one point. For each kill—a plain, uncontested murder—the corresponding mercenary received two points. For destroying buildings, which were anything built by the Engineer of either team, the destroyer got one point, and no assists were rewarded. Each member of the team was given a specific point quota that they needed to fill, based on their primary occupations. The members of the offense section—Scout, Pyro, and Soldier—required a higher amount of points than members of the defense section—Engineer, Demoman, and Heavy—and the support section—Medic, Sniper, Spy, and Express. Each individual of each section had varying amounts of points, such as Heavy needing more points than Demoman and Express requiring more points than Spy. The original nine, however, didn't have to worry much as they managed to double their score easily on a winning day. A Soldier could cap, or earn, over one hundred points in a single run.

When Express sat and listened to Miss Pauling, the black-haired and soft-spoken secretary to the Administrator, briefing her over these machinations, she questioned why was it mandatory to know such things. Express was even required to memorize the map rotation schedule. She knew quite a lot about things, in truth, something that she was tola lot hers in her class knew. It still struck her as odd, as she had never met the other Expresses before, and that only that class needed to know as part of regular training.

The battles always tended to feel the same: being on the same map for three battles, starting at the same time, in the the same spot. And their Soldier didn't usually make changes to the strategy. Scout would rush out; Demoman, Pyro, and Soldier would follow behind; Sniper ran to his normal vantage point; Medic and Heavy made their own way to the center point; Engineer began setting up his sentry guns and other contraptions to be moved up later; Spy disappeared to meddle with said machines on the RED side of the field. Express was unintentionally left out of the plans, most likely due to Soldier's oversight, giving her the unwanted freedom of running around aimlessly until she was needed. This was probably why lately she found herself gravitating closer and closer to where Sniper usually stood, eye to his scope, occasionally taking a step or two right or left to throw his counterpart's aim off. The gruff, quiet mercenary seemed to be the only stable thing on the whole battlefield. It wasn't that Express couldn't handle chaos—fighting in the streets was always chaos—it was more of a standard human want for order. It helped that she devised a point-plan that centered around Sniper's nest as a base of operations. Stability and strategy seemed to go hand-in-hand.

How many battles had it been since that meeting with the slippery Frenchman? Express wondered quietly as she leaned gently on the back of Engineer's Dispenser, a four-foot box that provided a slow healing akin to Medic's Medigun. It had been abandoned near Sniper's window, Engineer seizing the opportunity to move his sentry gun for an offensive maneuver.

Express counted the rounds of fighting and how many nights she had spent in the base out on her hands. It was probably not the wisest decision in the midst of explosions and bullets to be pondering on trivial things like that, but it was important to her. Express concluded that it had been at least a month now. Surely she had been contributing to RED's recent losing streak. Finally Builder's League United had pulled past its long chain of losses and began to beat out the REDs—more efficiently and soundly than ever, in fact.

Express kept thinking even at dinner, which was, for at least a week now, a tolerable affair. Sure, the days blurred together, but she couldn't help but notice changes among herself and her teammates. Express had come to appreciate a good insult from Scout, however grating; Demoman's drinking habits were more amusing than repulsive; Heavy every so often suggested a nice game of chess with him; Sniper openly conversed about guns, ammo, and even a bit about family with everyone; Soldier's thundering voice was less of a frightening sound in the morning; there was now more often time for a game of cards with Engineer; Pyro was...well he was always friendly and chipper, but tried to include Express in things like cooking dinner more often; the only team members to keep their unwelcoming exteriors were Medic and Spy, as their basic personalities maintained, but they had both softened up considerably to Express' presence. Spy was the most surprising and relieving change. It was a comforting thought, to be noticed and accepted, she remarked while stirring her mushy-pea soup, and a welcome one at that. No more sicking in corners between battles, no more glares and awkward silences (beyond the natural ones), and no more fears about losing her job. Well, almost no more of that.

For the first time that month, Express would send a happy letter home.

"Dear Manny, It's nice to finally read some chipper writing from you! Back here, we've got snow. Just a peppering, but it's still snow. Those gloves are such a nice addition to the warm and cozy things I'll be needing.

"So you've finally found your niche. It's about time! I suppose that isn't fair for me to say. It must be hard, running around all day, getting shot at and blown to bits, only to wake up with a migraine from hell. At least that's what I've been taking from your letters, it's not like I would know.

"This Spy man sounds very grating, almost as much as the Scout you mention as well! You already know this, but watch your back. You never know when the French will strike! And that Sniper bloke sounds nice. Awkward, but nice. I'm glad that no one is making a fuss over your gender, as it's rare for these times...but that means that you're proving yourself to these boys, eh? Keep on going!

"There aren't any huge updates on Benjy, but I think I'm nearing an important breakthrough. I can't tell you what it is, yet, but I hope that you will understand that I'm working hard. Don't you worry your pretty little head about it: you've got a job to work! And I understand that too.

"Speaking of understanding, I think it's acceptable to send home a Christmas greeting to your mum and your sisters...not to mention your nieces as nephews! They need to know that their auntie cares, especially an epic auntie like you. Better send them now or they may not make it. I know how long post takes from where you're stationed.

"I knew you would like the peppermints last time. Couldn't get any this time, so I hope the lemon drops are just as good! I hope to see you soon? Doesn't the company give breaks for the Holidays? I'll probably swing by America anyways for a spell, I hear the weather is sunny still.

"Lots of love and support, Max."

Express held the letter close to her chest and lay back down on her creaking cot. Maxine's words were like painkillers to her: comforting and distracting from her surroundings. Thinking back, she wouldn't have made the month without her friend's words, and all the bruises, cuts, after-respawn nausea, and aching limbs were all worthwhile after reading Maxine's encouragement.

And Benjy! Maxine found a way to get more information about his death. How and what would have to wait. Express sighed and sat back up, neatly folding the letter up an replacing it in its envelope. Chucking it at her desk, the Londoner got up and made her way out into the hallway. She couldn't sleep just yet, and there was something she needed to do. All this thought of support and help...four hours and twenty minutes of sleep would have to do.

Today had been full of an awful lot of thinking, and that was an important sign: there was time to think. Even though the battles were intense today, the fatigue didn't kick in yet.

"Thanks mate."

"Wha—?" Sniper looked up from his rifle, pausing his cleaning. Seeing that it was Express, he turned back to his work with a small smile. "Whatever for?"

"I just thought that, if not for you, I'd be gone right now, stuck in some hole in London."

Sniper chuckled lightly and adjusted his aviators so that they sat on top of his hatless head. Express didn't make trips out of the base often, but the Australian had given a few hints that it was okay to go by and visit his van sometime. She never asked why the van, and not in the barracks, but there were better things to say than that. Besides, he didn't seem to have a room.

Through their conversations, on and off the front, Express had come to find that Sniper was a quiet person, one that enjoyed his time alone. He noticed that Express was a very distracted person, as if there was a television playing constantly in the back of her head. Their relationship was quite awkward at first, as most are, with only bits and chunks of actual verbal exchange taking place. The talks started about the weather, then made way to that day's battles, and then it would just stop. Neither of them could bring themselves to divulge any more information about themselves. Slowly, much to the relief of both, it got better.

Sniper knew briefly of Express' problems with her mother, and she in turn knew an overview of his tumultuous relationship with the older Mr. Mundy. He also knew a little about Maxine and Benjamin, and how the latter turned out. It was almost fun, being able to talk like that, about their own lives. Express had found a friend in the mercenary, and, more importantly, someone to confide in, besides Maxine. He was both closer in proximity, and easier to contact.

"Well, mate, for what it's worth, I think that you and I make a team, right and proper. I've got your base of operations protected and you've got my perimeter in check." He added with a chuckle, "Have a seat will you, you're making me nervous."

Express nodded with a grin of her own and took a seat on the ground beside Sniper, who was on a rickety, sun-faded blue lawn chair. His long legs hung over the side as he balanced the rifle on his knees while wiping it down. The kukri, SMG, and—Express noticed with a bit of unease—a few clean, but slightly-wet jars sat on the ground to the left of him. The man cared about being professional, and by being so, he liked being organized.

She took a deep breath. The stars had come out rather brilliantly in the desert sky and the air was crisp but comfortable. A little gas lamp lit up the small circle of yellow light around the two. It had taken a month of effort to get their conversations as long as this, and Express almost reveled in that fact.

"Can you find any constellations? I always liked to find them back home. Helped while I was out tracking."

"I usually can make out Orion. Right there."

"Everyone can see that one, mate." Sniper had put down his gun beside him on the chair and was seated on the floor too, besides Express. Both of them took turns pointing at the sky, laughing occasionally. A couple hours later, they said their good-nights. Express actually fell asleep immediately after she fell into bed, a feat that seemed to avoid her the whole month she was there.


End file.
